One more for the road

After 33 years, Jon Carroll has written his last column for The Chronicle. “I thought it was the best job in the world when I started it; I have had no reason to change my mind,” he says.

After 33 years, Jon Carroll has written his last column for The Chronicle. “I thought it was the best job in the world when I started it; I have had no reason to change my mind,” he says.

Photo: Michael Macor, The Chronicle 2008

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A cake is presented to Columnist Jon Carroll Thursday, November 19, 2015 who retired from the San Francisco Chronicle after 33 years working at the newspaper.

A cake is presented to Columnist Jon Carroll Thursday, November 19, 2015 who retired from the San Francisco Chronicle after 33 years working at the newspaper.

Photo: Brian Feulner

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A cake is presented to Columnist Jon Carroll Thursday, November 19, 2015 who retired from the San Francisco Chronicle after 33 years working at the newspaper.

A cake is presented to Columnist Jon Carroll Thursday, November 19, 2015 who retired from the San Francisco Chronicle after 33 years working at the newspaper.

Photo: Brian Feulner

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From left, Nanette Asimov and Jon Carroll listen to a song performed during a retirement party for Carroll after 33 years of working for the San Francisco Chronicle Thursday, November 19, 2015.

From left, Nanette Asimov and Jon Carroll listen to a song performed during a retirement party for Carroll after 33 years of working for the San Francisco Chronicle Thursday, November 19, 2015.

Photo: Brian Feulner

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From left, Steve Steve Rubenstein, Kevin Fagan and Joshua Zucker perform a song during a retirement party for Jon Carroll on Thursday, November 19, 2015 who is leaving the San Francisco Chronicle after 33 years of working for the newspaper. less

From left, Steve Steve Rubenstein, Kevin Fagan and Joshua Zucker perform a song during a retirement party for Jon Carroll on Thursday, November 19, 2015 who is leaving the San Francisco Chronicle after 33 years ... more

Photo: Brian Feulner

One more for the road

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I first walked into The Chronicle city room in June 1962. I was 19, a summer intern working for the This World section, a Sunday tabloid with a news roundup, cultural commentary and, in the middle, on pink paper, an entertainment section.

The city room looked like the ones in old movies, men in shirtsleeves (white, sleeves rolled up) smoking, laughing and pounding on typewriters. There were bottles in drawers, and having a convivial glass in the afternoon was not frowned on. The official Chronicle phone list contained the numbers of both the M&M and Hanno’s, the official newspaper bars.

There was a guy named Shorty who manned a coffee-and-snack table. His coffee was terrible. The awful coffee was considered a point of pride — if you can drink this crap, you can be a reporter.

At the back of the room was my area. I was right next to the critics, which was amusing. Also back there was the “women’s” section, which featured recipes and sewing tips and lots of coverage of society doings. The Chronicle was run by a socially prominent family, so the doings of their friends were written about generously and frequently. It was, of course, staffed entirely by women.

There was one woman at the front of the room: the redoubtable Carolyn Anspacher, who swore like a steelworker, talked in a cigarette-ravaged voice and covered crime stories. (She was also, I discovered through Googling, the subject of a rare portrait by Ansel Adams.)

So I settled into my white male world, writing like a blur (I was really good at “fast”) and looking for stuff to do. Then the ’60s happened, and the younger Chronicle guys were growing their hair longer and the younger Chronicle gals were wearing their skirts shorter. There were two pot dealers in the city room (the guy I used and the guy I didn’t use), and at least one occasion of reporting while tripping on acid. (Not me; I was too chicken to do that.)

Because I worked partially for the entertainment section, I would get little presents. When I edited the Reno Tahoe “section” — it was entirely press releases pretending to be news stories — the haul was particularly large. But nothing like what Herb Caen got — the bottles of booze and baskets of flowers were lined up in the hallway by his office.

More by Jon Carroll

I edited a lot of critics, including Ralph J. Gleason, the revered jazz and rock writer who understood rock ’n’ roll a lot sooner than most adults. One day he told me about a magazine he and his friend were starting. Would I like a job? I would.

The magazine was Rolling Stone. After that, I got editing jobs at a tiny fashion magazine called Rags, the Los Angeles Times, the Playboy company, the Village Voice, WomenSports, New West and, for my sins, Rupert Murdoch. Who left me alone for two years, until he didn’t.

I came back to The Chronicle in 1982, and I stayed and I stayed. I made a little trouble in the beginning: I compared Nordstrom to a whorehouse. I meant it in a nice way; when Nordstrom first opened, the men’s department featured a guy at a piano and a gaggle of young saleswomen who would lead you to the back and ask what you wanted. Then you went into a small room and took off your clothes.

Mr. Nordstrom was not amused.

And then I had the column. I thought it was the best job in the world when I started it; I have had no reason to change my mind. In my capacity, I got to swim with the dolphins at Steinhart Aquarium (takeaway: Dolphins are really big), perform with an improv comedy group in a SoMa basement (takeaway: Comedy is hard), serve as interlocutor in a hilarious public interview with Molly Ivins, during which I merely bathed in her aura (takeaway: damn).

On The Chronicle’s dime, I went to Papua New Guinea (total eclipse of the sun) and China (Western Opera Theater Company). I got online in 1987, just to write a column about it, and that led me to the Well, the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a website. My involvement with the Pickle Family Circus started with an interview for a column. That was another adventure — laughter, tears, meetings.

I got more serious as I got older, or things did. From the takeover of Iraq to the refugee crisis to Ben bloody Carson, the world seemed to be hitting a bad patch. My consciousness was raised on a variety of matters. So that led to yet another column voice. I didn’t think I could change the world; I just thought I’d try to clarify things.

I made a lot of mistakes. Sometimes I didn’t tell the truth; once I claimed I was a woman who had to pretend to be a man to get a job at The Chronicle. I got letters for 10 years afterward.

I once advised children: “Tell baroque and obscure lies.”

And I got to work at The Chronicle. I didn’t really notice the time go by; a daily deadline tends to do that. And I didn’t notice enough all the Chronicle people who helped me. So I’m thanking them now, for their support and their generosity.

I know this list is long, but it could be four times longer. Forty years is a long time. You can look at it as a little prose knot in the middle of the column, or you can look at it as an extremely eccentric history of The Chronicle.

And of course the fabulous Andrea Behr, my editor and partner in crime for many years. Eventually, we developed a strange shorthand, almost as though we were thinking the same thoughts at the same time. She was sneaky in our interactions. She would ask me about a badly worded sentence, and then she’d wait for me to flail around for a while. And I would always say, “Do you have a solution?” and of course she always did. She saved me from mistakes too numerous to mention, and she advocated for my prose when that was necessary. I’ll always be grateful.

You’ve been a lovely audience. Your e-mails to me over the last three weeks have been overwhelming. Do I have any parting words of wisdom? If you’re walking at night, wear white. Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear. Ripe bananas are the best bananas. Measure twice, cut once. And please, please, always bring your seat backs and tray tables to their full upright and locked position.

Spoiler: Alice wakes up and discovers it was all a dream, and she wanders to the center of the meadow and sits on the grass and looks at the sky. “Well,” she says, “that was a thing.”